Risk and Rebel

5: AMNESIA AIN'T GOT NOTHING ON THIS

Mickey was in a coma for three days.

I seldom left the hospital. If I wasn't in Mickey's room, I was in the waiting room while her parents were ... if I wasn't in the hospital at all, I was at home, sleeping on the couch because I was too emotionally drained to make it up the stairs to my room. I was having a hard time sleeping at all, and after running off my own fumes for three days straight, I was beginning to drift off as I sat in the chair beside Mickey's bed.

I had reached a point where I figured sleeping by Mickey was better than just staring at her. Though she looked better since the past three days had gone by, she still didn't look right. She had received three major injuries in total; the one that had caused the coma was hidden by her hair. The nurse had told me that one in particular had required a few stitches, but those were things I couldn't see. Aside from the head wound, Mickey had two longer cuts along her left arm, and a smaller but deeper cut in her light thigh from when the driver's side window had shattered — all of which had also required stitches.

Besides the three major wounds, she looked like she was bruised almost everywhere. Her arms were green and blue, and across her collarbone was a particularly gruesome looking purple and green one where she'd come into contact with the steering wheel when the airbags had deployed late.

Sleeping, my pained conscious knew, was far better than forcing myself to continue cataloging her every injury.

I was about to drop off completely when I heard a low grumble. That alone was not enough to draw me to full wakefulness, but movement on the bed followed by a louder mumble of near coherency did. I sat up, eyes widening as I saw Mickey forcing herself into a sitting-up position, scowling all the while.

I was slack-jawed and struggling to remember what breathing was, much less speaking. It was because of that that she spoke first ...

And when she did, she confused me far beyond what I ever could have expected.

"Rebel?" Mickey asked, and her irritable expression relaxed ever-so-slightly. Her voice was scratchy. "What happened?"

I fought the urge to continue gaping at her, and instead found myself blinking at her in owlish confusion. Her relentless amber eyes bore into my green ones, and despite the fact that she had just come out of a coma, she seemed strangely . . . comfortable. Between processing her being awake at all, along with her near instant mobility, not to even mention what she said— My mouth was struggling to catch up with my mind. She had just called me Rebel. "I-- what?"

She rolled her eyes — actually rolled her eyes. Then she canted her head and gave me a look of irritation. "I asked what happened," she repeated, crossing her arms over her chest as best she could with all the machines she was attached to. "You know, how long was I—"

Before she could finish, the nurse came in. Upon seeing Mickey was awake, her features morphed in surprise, and before either Mickey or I could get a word out, she was leaning into the hall and calling for the doctor. Soon enough, both the doctor and nurse were in the room with she and I, and I swear I have never seen such an exacerbated look on Mickey's face before.

"How do you feel?" Dr. Larimore asked Mickey, his expression one I had grown accustomed to seeing on many of the staff in this hospital. It was the look of exaggerated sympathy that seemed underlined with pity, and I hated it.

I could only imagine how Mickey would react to it.

Her animosity intensified. "I'm fine," she stated, eyes narrowing as she observed the doctor critically. "When can I be discharged?"

I didn't even notice when my mouth dropped open again.

"Well we have a few questions first, Miss—" Larimore began to say. That was all it took for Mickey to wave him off.

"Fine," she said curtly. "Ask."

Except before they could, and while I was still trying to wrap my head around my best friend's bizarre behavior, both of her parents came bursting in. I couldn't tell who was saying what, but I heard them declaring they'd just arrived when the nurses told them the good news, they were so happy—

And she was looking at them as though she'd never seen them before in her life. No emotional response whatsoever. Instead of taking notice of her mother's tears, she looked past both of her parents and fixed me with a hard look that seemed slightly perplexed.

I arched a brow in response, confused about what she was expecting from me — no, I was confused about the entire situation. Nothing made sense. I was starting to wonder if maybe I was dreaming ...

"Miss Davidson," Larimore said as the nurse began to urge the Mickey's parents away from the bed, "do you know who these people are?"

Mickey looked up at him, her face professionally stoic, and gave a painfully straightforward answer. "No."

Gina made a strangled sound at that, and Richard Davidson was quick to wrap an arm around his wife. The nurse ushered the two of them back into the hall after a subtle gesture from Dr. Larimore, and I was surprised when he waved at me next. "Do you know who he is?"

Mickey's sharp eyes focused in on me. We made eye contact for less than a second before she nodded. "Of course I do."

I felt relieved, and simultaneously guilty. She recognized me, but not her parents? What was this, selective amnesia?

"And who is he?" Dr. Larimore persisted.

Mickey gave Larimore a highly apprehensive look, and for a split second I was concerned she was going to try to jump the doctor. With that thought in mind, I was readying myself to get up and restrain her, but there was no need. She looked back to me, both of her brows rising as if she, for whatever reason, expected me to answer. When she realized I wasn't going to, she gave a huff of a sigh and rolled her eyes. "He's my partner. Rebel. Is this a test to see if I have amnesia? Because I can assure you I am perfectly—"

"No, no," Larimore interrupted her. "It's not a test."

Mickey's frustration morphed to annoyance, and her eyes narrowed. It didn't take a genius to discern why; she obviously didn't appreciate being interrupted.

"And we do have confirmation, of course," Larimore proceeded, "that you are perfectly healthy. All of your vitals are surprisingly stable — given your accident — and you appear to have received no lasting damage."

Mickey stared him down for a long moment. "Then why are you still questioning me?"

"Regulation," the nurse piped up, though even she looked a bit off-put now.

Mickey wasn't buying anything either of the medical professionals were selling — I could read it on every inch of her face.

"We do have a few more questions to ask," Larimore proceeded, continuing to ignore everything bizarre about Mickey's behavior. "Would you mind confirming your name for me?" he asked, adjusting the hold he had on his clipboard and looking between she and it.

"Risk," she said shortly. Her eyes locked back onto mine then, even though her words were clearly directed toward Larimore. "I would like to be discharged."

All eyes were on me at that point, causing me to swallow thickly. This was not at all what I had expected to happen today. As I was attempting to rid myself of dry mouth, I glanced back at the doctor, then to Mickey . . .

Neither she nor I had a chance to say anything else before the doctor was asking me to leave the room — and leaving himself — and that was how I found myself being roped into a conversation with Larimore and Mickey's parents.